


And Then I Open Up and See (The Person Falling Here Is Me)

by gilligankane



Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-14
Updated: 2011-03-14
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:38:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gilligankane/pseuds/gilligankane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’ll make sure Brittany doesn’t fall in love with her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Then I Open Up and See (The Person Falling Here Is Me)

**Author's Note:**

> Written and conceptualized BEFORE the airing of 2x15 "Sexy"

Santana opens her eyes but Brittany’s face is still there, hovering so closely over her that Santana’s first instinct is to run. Her instincts, though, are drowned out by the lingering feeling of Brittany’s mouth against her own and Brittany’s hands moving continuously across the tops of her shoulders and around the back of her neck. She closes her eyes again and cants her head down, her forehead sliding against Brittany’s, as the blonde leans back in. She flexes her hands, twisting the polyester of Brittany’s uniform top between her fingers, and as she does, the noise of the crowd drowns out Brittany panting gently.   
  
Techno beats pulse through the house, shaking the wall Santana had her back against. Even upstairs, in the shadow of the bathroom door, Santana can hear Karfosky bellowing about a keg stand and resulting roar of approval. She doesn’t hear the coming footsteps until she sees the tangled bodies crest the top of the stairs. Instinct kicks into overdrive this time and she reacts, pulling Brittany closer, her hands flat on the small of Brittany’s back, holding her there. She’s not prepared for contact: Brittany’s hips flush against her own, Brittany’s breasts pressed into her, Brittany’s mouth sliding across her cheek and her breath hot in Santana’s ear.   
  
“San,” Brittany says in an exhale.   
  
Santana only pulls Brittany closer to keep her quiet. The two bodies at the end of the hall unwind from each other and the boy – his mohawk distinguishable – starts walking towards them.   
  
“You’re beautiful,” Puck says, his voice tender in a way Santana has never heard.   
  
Brittany jerks against her when the girl answers, and it takes everything in Santana’s reservoir of willpower not to step into the light and claw them both across the eyes.   
  
“You’re beautiful, Quinn,” Puck says again, pausing a few feet from where they’re hiding. “Let me show you.”   
  
They disappear into a room across from the bathroom and Santana doesn’t breathe until she hears the telltale click of the lock. Then she collapses forward, her head dropping to Brittany’s shoulder.   
  
She wants to be mad at Brittany. If Brittany hadn’t tugged her off the couch, her face twisted in an I’m-going-to-maybe-throw-up way, across the makeshift dance floor, between people using grinding as an excuse to dry hump, if she hadn’t pulled her out of Puck’s grasp and up the stairs and pushed her against the wall, Santana would still be downstairs in Puck’s lap and her “boyfriend” wouldn’t be locking himself inside a bedroom with the walking chastity belt.   
  
But Brittany’s arms come around her shoulders and hold her even closer, murmuring how sorry she is in her ear, over and over again.   
  
Santana hates  _pity_  more than she hates anything else in the world – even her perpetually absent father. She hates the way that Brittany’s hold goes from intentional to comforting. And Brittany knows it, must be able to feel it in the way that Santana tenses, like Brittany always knows, because she’s pulling back and leaning down before Santana can stop her.   
  
Brittany tastes like weak punch and the candy she was eating when Santana picked her up. She bites down on Santana’s bottom lip, tugging until her tongue slides in its place, past Santana’s teeth. It grazes the tip of Santana’s tongue and then again, harder. Santana can’t stop the moan that bubbles up in her throat and spills into Brittany’s open mouth. When Brittany’s hand skates down her rib and brushes the underside of her breast, she breaks away, sucking in one shaky breath as a flare of heat rushes to the pit of her stomach.   
  
She pulls far enough away to actually see Brittany’s face: her eyes are wide and her lips are swollen and her chest is rising and falling too fast for Santana to keep track of. She wishes she were closer so the expression in Brittany’s eyes could be something that she could ignore. Santana has seen that look before – in her parents’ eyes and in the movies and when Berry looks at Hudson.   
  
Santana doesn’t want to put a name to it. She’s a little tipsy, a little pissed off, a little hurt, a little confused, a little horny and a little scared of the way Brittany’s mouth hangs open, like she wants to say something.   
  
Still, her mind supplies the word before she suppress it:  _love_.   
  
Love, or at least the beginning of something like it. Right there, in the corner of Brittany’s mouth and around the edges of her eyes and the tips of her fingers skimming across the front of her top. There has always been something there: a little more than best friends, linking pinkies, lingering looks, Santana’s overprotective nature, Brittany’s undying loyalty. And Santana has always seen the looks from other people and heard the whispers but now that she see it…   
  
Now she actually sees it and she wishes Brittany were closer so she didn’t have to see anything at all. So she slides her hands up the length of Brittany’s back and pulls her forward until Brittany’s eyes blur and fade in the shadows. She lifts a little on her toes, to kiss the top of Brittany’s cheekbone and say that she’s sorry and leave. But Brittany moves with her, lifting her head too and finding the corner of Santana’s mouth, sliding until she’s sucking Santana’s bottom lip between her own. Santana pauses, only for a moment, before kissing back, but she ignores the sigh of relief Brittany breathes between kisses.  
 _  
It’s fine_ , Santana tells herself.  _It’s fine_. It’s just one night. Tomorrow, she’ll explain to Brittany that’s just one night and it doesn’t mean anything. She’ll explain everything later, when Brittany’s hand isn’t searching for the zipper on her skirt.   
  
She’ll make sure Brittany doesn’t fall in love with her.   
  
***   
  
Santana pushes her hands into the mattress and straightens her elbows, hovering. Brittany’s mouth turns down and her hands slide from the backs of Santana’s thighs to her hips, trying to pull her back down. She doesn’t move, though, except to toss her hair over her shoulder so she can really see Brittany.   
  
Blonde hair spreads across the pillow and rains down over Brittany’s bare shoulders. Just above her collarbone, Santana can see the skin darkening and feels a twinge of pride, knowing she did that. Her eyes trace the line of Brittany’s pale pink bra to the swell of her breast. She looks back up, to the dip of Brittany’s throat and over her chin, lingering on her mouth and then her eyes.   
  
“ _Sex isn’t dating_.”   
  
“ _If it were, Santana and I would be dating._ ”   
  
She wasn’t sure why Brittany said that then, but now, looking down and staring at the curve of Brittany’s mouth and the way her eyes are – soft and bright, like they were in the hallway but worse, almost – it kind of makes sense. If she’s being honest, she should have seen it coming. The lingering after sex, the clothes-on cuddling during movies, Brittany kissing her goodnight whenever she drops the blonde off at home – all of them should have been one giant, flashing warning sign that Santana should turn and run. Except that she stays, addicted to the taste of Brittany’s mouth, the feel of her skin and the way Brittany  _always_  wants her.   
  
Brittany’s hands on her hips go from pulling her down to pressing against her, catching Santana’s attention. “Hey,” she murmurs. “What’s wrong?”   
  
Santana gives her a small smile, dropping to her elbows. “Nothing.”   
  
“Liar,” Brittany says. She shifts her hips, her leg wrapping around Santana’s, trapping her. “You’re thinking.”   
  
“I’m allowed to do that,” Santana bites out, a rush of irritation surging through her. She grits her teeth and pushes back up on her hands, trying to pull her leg out of Brittany’s hold. “Lemme go.”   
  
Brittany shakes her head and tightens her grip on Santana’s leg and her hands on Santana’s waist. “Let me go,” she says again, struggling.   
  
The grip loosens and Santana exhales gratefully, but as she sucks in her next breath, ready to stand, Brittany grabs her and rolls, pushing Santana’s back into the body-warm comforter. If Puck had tried that, she would have kneed him in the stomach and left, but she’s too busy trying to catch her breath to push Brittany away.   
  
“I know you’re allowed to think,” Brittany says, nudging Santana’s legs apart with her knee. “It’s just that when you think…” Brittany leans down and kisses the wrinkle of skin running across Santana’s forehead. “You usually think about things that are wrong.”   
  
Santana bristles a little. “And you never think anything is wrong.”   
  
Brittany smiles against her forehead. “When I’m with you, nothing ever is.”   
  
The angry retort dies in her throat but Brittany doesn’t notice. She just keeps kissing Santana’s face, down across her cheekbone and to the corner of her mouth. Santana doesn’t kiss back but it’s like Brittany doesn’t care. She just keeps moving, the knee between Santana’s legs pressing up slowly. That gets her moving, arching her back and pressing her head into the mattress so Brittany has access to her neck. Her fingers dig into Brittany’s sides and her head spins as Brittany pushes into her again.   
  
“Look at me,” Brittany whispers against her jawbone.   
  
She doesn’t want to. She knows what she’ll see if she does – those big, soft, blue eyes staring down at her, looking at her in a way no one ever has before, except Puck, once, maybe, after they fumbled out of bed and back into their clothes for the first time. She doesn’t want to look because it frightens her to the point where, if Brittany wasn’t holding her down, she would run.   
  
Brittany’s forehead bumps against hers. “Hey. Look at me.”   
  
Her eyes flicker open, fluttering so that Brittany’s face blurs in front of hers. “What?” she asks, her voice hoarse.   
  
“Are you still thinking?” Brittany asks, each word punctuated with a press of her knee.   
  
Santana lets out a breathy laugh. “No,” she admits. “Not anymore.”   
  
Brittany pouts a little. “You’re not even thinking of me?”   
  
She wants to say “ _no_ ” but she can’t stand lying to Brittany, about anything. So she gives something that looks like she’s shaking her head and leans up, kidding Brittany and holding the blonde’s face in her hands.   
  
“Sex isn’t dating,” she says as she pulls back, Brittany’s bottom lip grazing her own.   
  
“Yeah,” Brittany hums into her mouth. “If it were, you and I would be dating.”   
  
Brittany’s voice sounds a little different, a little like she’s hopeful and disappointed and longing all at the same time. Santana can’t tell the difference with Brittany so close. Whatever it is that she hears, it makes Santana kiss Brittany again, so she shuts up.   
  
She hates the way it feels like she’s letting Brittany down. She hates the way it feels like she owes Brittany something, even if she doesn’t.   
  
She’s slipping, but she’ll start trying harder to make sure Brittany doesn’t fall further in love with her.   
  
***   
 _  
It’s not like I’m in love with you_  echoes in her head so loudly she can’t sleep. She hasn’t been able to sleep lately anyway – not since all she sees when she closes her eyes is Artie and Brittany. She can’t get rid of the image of Brittany swinging a leg over Artie’s, leaning down and rocking her hips back against him. All she can think about is the hickey she saw on Artie’s neck, just above the neckline of his godawful sweater.   
  
Santana rolls over and presses her face into the pillow, letting out a short scream. Her hand fists the sheets on the other side of the bed – Brittany’s side. That side has been cold for too many days. The sheets have been stayed perfectly tucked in, except for the wrinkles she makes now. If Brittany were here, they’d be all turned around and tugged out from under the mattress – nothing perfect about them. They were usually the only thing separating Brittany’s skin from Santana’s eyes. She rolls back over and takes a deep breath, looking at her cell phone. She’s dialed Brittany’s number more times than she’d ever admit to but hasn’t had the strength to hit send.   
  
She hates pity more than anything, but her pride is right up there too. Pride has always gotten in her way – with Puck and Quinn and even Berry and the rest of glee – and it keeps stopping her from calling, or saying hi in the halls or apologizing.   
  
In the darkness of her room, alone, she acknowledges something she’s refused to say out loud: she’s in love with Brittany.   
  
She has been for a while, she thinks. Not that first night. She felt too many things that first night but love wasn’t one of them. And it wasn’t the second night or the third, but somewhere in between the first time and the last, Santana ended up falling in love. It’s such a cliché that it turns Santana’s stomach, but the thing about clichés is, they have truth to them.   
  
And then she went and panicked and now Brittany is giving Skid Marks hickeys and ignoring her in the halls and whispering in his ear like he’s the new Santana.   
  
There’s a tap on the window and she snaps up in bed. It’s just a branch, beating against the glass, not a leggy blonde with blue eyes, crawling in and smirking at her. She sinks back against her pillows and bunches the comforter into a pile, hugging it tightly to her chest.   
 _  
Maybe I could sing to her_  she thinks, though she immediately dismisses the idea. Singing to Brittany is something Rachel would tell her to do. It’s something Artie has already done. She likes singing in a group and she likes singing in front of a group but singing  _to_  someone isn’t who she is. She can’t get up there and belt out “The Only Exception” with tears in her eyes, because that’s not Santana Lopez.   
  
And Brittany fell in love with Santana Lopez – badass, takes no crap from anyone, gets what she wants because she wants it Santana Lopez.   
  
It hasn’t always been there for her, she doesn’t think. She hasn’t always been in love with Brittany, not the way that it seems Brittany has always been in love with her. It’s there now, though, in the way her fingers and hands ache for Brittany and the way her eyes search every hallway and every pale face in class. It’s there now and it feels so good she doesn’t want to lose it – not to someone like Artie, at the very least.   
  
Tomorrow, she’ll tell Brittany everything, in her own way. Tomorrow, she’ll pull Brittany aside and explain it all. Tonight, she’ll sleep for the first time in too long, and tomorrow, she’ll fix everything.   
  
She’ll make sure Brittany knows she’s in love with her.   
  
***   
  
It takes some time but Santana finally gets a minute to pull Brittany aside. Sam’s sheep-dog haircut should have clued her in to his puppy-like tendencies. It’s hard to shake him in the halls but she makes sure to take a detour on the way to lunch, down the hall by the science classrooms, and casually, intentionally, brushes by Jacob Ben Israel. When he reaches for her chest, Sam jumps to her defense and she steps away as her knight in blinding peroxide shoves JewFro back towards his locker.   
  
People part for her: the lasting power of the uniform and the glare at work. She’s relying on that power to keep her head above water more than she’ll admit, if Brittany asks her. The crisp white and red lines of her uniform offered her a cushion, a support to fall back on, a bye from the blatant name-calling and slushie attacks. If she had been quicker, if she hadn’t let herself feel more, the uniform would still be tightly wrapped around her body and people like Rachel Berry would never have the guts to call her a stripper. Girls like Lauren Zizes still might throw her against a row of lockers – because she went looking for that fight, no matter what she tells people – but the wrestler would have to answer to Sue and a horde of starved cheerleaders.   
  
Still, people part enough so that she stays untouched down the middle of the hall. It’s hard finding Brittany quickly – there’s no signature high ponytail, no Cheerios skirt, and since Brittany stopped spending the night, Santana never knows what she’s going to show up to school in. Just as she’s about to give up and go rescue Sam from the dirty hands of JewFro, a hat bobs above the students in the hall and Santana knows it’s Brittany. She starts shouldering people who don’t get out of her way quick enough, ignoring the half-pained, half-furious look Quinn gives her as she passes. For a moment she thinks Quinn is going to do something – maybe stick her foot out and trip her or push the nameless jock next to her into Santana’s path – but Berry calls Quinn’s name and Santana passes safely.   
  
She’s just about to reach Brittany, her arm already stretched out to catch Brittany’s shirt in her hand. He rolls in front of her so quickly she almost topples over into his chair, but she manages to keep herself upright and crosses her arms over her chest as she recovers. “What?” she snaps at him. 

 

 Artie frowns up at her and crosses his arms too, probably trying to look intimidating. “Listen, Santana-” 

 

 She cuts him off. “Don’t you have a Parcheesi game to get to, Grandpa? Get outta my way.” 

 

 “No, listen to me.” 

 

 “No,  _you_  listen to me, caboose.” She leans down, hovering over him, her hands on the arm rests of his chair as she eyes his handbrake. She could unlock it and push him backwards down the hall – time it right and maybe Coach Sylvester will see her and offer her the corner base spot back. “I don’t know who you think you are, but when I say to get out of my way,” she says slowly, emphasizing each word, “you get out of my way.” 

 

 He opens his mouth like he’s going to talk back to her and something inside of her says, “ _Good. Say something and see what happens to you._ ” But something tugs his chair back before she can push him, pulling against the brake. 

 

 “What’s going on?” Brittany asks slowly, looking between them. Santana searches Brittany’s face but the blonde looks down at Artie instead. The rejection she expects to feel – that she’s been feeling too much lately – doesn’t come as quickly as usual. Maybe it’s because she has a purpose, an intent. Maybe it’s because tomorrow there’s the possibility that Brittany will be looking at her first and always. 

 

“We were just talking,” she finally says, straightening up and looking Brittany up and down. She always knew Brittany was hot: the line of her legs muscles and her abs and the way her arms never shook when she hovered over Santana. Brittany in uniform, the way the pleats fell over her thighs, was always something that had Santana’s hands clenching in fists in glee, resisting the urge to reach over and touch her in front of everyone. But Brittany now, in a shirt that comes over the tops of her shoulders and leaves her arms bare, the jeans they bought together the last time they drove to Cleveland and a flat-billed Lakers hat, is something she could get used to seeing. Her fists clench on reflex but it’s satisfying when Artie flinches. Like she’d break a nail for him. 

 

 “Actually,” she starts just as Artie opens his mouth. “I was looking for you. I was hoping we could talk.” 

 

 Brittany’s eyes snap up to meet hers and Santana feels something inside of her clench with guilt. The way Brittany is surprised and hopeful makes her stomach churn a little – has she always been so selfish that admitting she needs Brittany, even if it’s just to talk, surprises her? 

 

 “Yeah, okay,” Brittany says at the same time as Artie says, “Absolutely not.” 

 

 Santana glares at him. “I wasn’t talking to you,” she hisses. 

 

 He’s got this look on his face like he would stomp his foot if he could lift his leg, like a five-year-old who just got told no dessert before dinner. “Well, I answered.” 

 

Brittany shifts uncomfortably, pulling on the ends of her straightened hair. “Guys,” she says. “People are watching.” 

 

 Santana looks over her shoulder and bares her teeth at Karofsky. He stares her down for a second then finds something interesting at the other end of the hallway, pulling some of his buddies with him. People follow is lead and the hall thins out. She turns back to Brittany and smiles proudly, like she’s saying, “ _Hey, look. I made them go away for you._ ” 

 

 Only Brittany is leaning down and whispering in Artie’s ear and Santana’s stomach churns for an entirely different reason than before as Brittany’s lips brush against the side of Artie’s face. Her own ears burn with the memory of Brittany’s mouth that close to her skin, breathing heavy against her. Santana’s body screams at her to turn away but she’s transfixed by the flicker of Brittany’s tongue against her teeth as she talks. She can still feel Artie glaring at her but his chair is rocking forward, almost over her toes. He grunts something and back up slowly, wheeling around her. She smirks as he rolls down the hall and disappears around the corner. 

 

 Now it’s just the two of them in a mostly empty hallway and Santana can breathe easily. Her whole body twists upright: her shoulders go high, her neck stretches up, her arms cross over her chest comfortably and she feels her face relax into a smile. Nothing’s tense the way it is when Sam’s arm ends up around her shoulders. She reaches up and tugs on the bill of Brittany’s hat so that it comes down over her eyes. The blonde bats her hand away, smiling a little and adjusting the hat.   
 

“Steal that from Wed Brody?” Santana teases. 

 

 Brittany doesn’t laugh. She touches the bill again and toes the linoleum. “What’s up?” she asks after a minute. 

 

 Santana frowns a little and thinks of where to start. Words are what her mouth is best at and in the middle of the hall, there’s not a lot she can do. Brittany’s looking at her, waiting with wide eyes and Santana feels a flare of frustration run through her. Brittany knows her. Brittany should know what this is about. 

 

 “I’m ready now,” she bites out, like it should be obvious. It  _should_  be. “We don’t need to sing. Just ditch the geriatric, okay? It can be me and you.” 

 

 It’s not what she wanted to say. It’s not even pretty-sounding, the way she wanted it to be, like Brittany deserves. It’s just that she’s who she was before, the first time Brittany kissed her. She’s driven and relentless and blunt and has a boyfriend she doesn’t want or need, so why isn’t Brittany pressing her into dark corners yet? Why hasn’t Brittany smirked at her in class and slid her hand along Santana’s thigh? 

 

 She swallows back her annoyance and anger, taking a deep breath. “Okay, wait. That didn’t come out right. I’m just…” She trailed off for a moment. “I’m ready. You kissed me and, and I wasn’t.” 

 

She steps forward, her hands moving to Brittany’s waist. She pauses just before them but exhales noisily as they slide along the ridge of Brittany’s hipbone, the tips of her fingers sneaking up under the hem of Brittany’s shirt. 

 

 “I wasn’t ready that time but I am now,” she repeats. “I have been for longer than I really knew. I know now.” 

 

 She runs her hands up Brittany’s sides, stepping in until Brittany’s back is against the lockers. She searches Brittany’s eyes, too bright in the florescent lights of the hall. If Brittany pushes her away, Santana will let go. But Brittany is just watching her, waiting for her next move. 

 

 “I’m sorry it took me so long,” she says quietly. Santana drops her head to Brittany’s shoulder, closing her eyes. “I just didn’t know.” 

 

 Brittany’s arms lift, wrapping around Santana’s waist and pulling her just a little closer until Santana can feel their hips press together. She lifts her head, her nose brushing against Brittany’s. There’s that look again, the one she sees in her dreams and in her own reflection. She can feel it radiating from somewhere inside of her chest and down to the tips of her toes. 

 

 She hates pity and she hates her pride and she hates apologizing, but she hates not having Brittany more than all of those combined. She hates that having Brittany against her makes her feel like she could sing any song in the world and still be bulletproof. It makes her so uncomfortable and Brittany must know that, like she always does because as she tenses and pulls away, her cowardice overwhelming, Brittany follows her. 

 

 Brittany’s lips barely graze hers. Their foreheads press together and she can feel Brittany breathing, against her mouth and chin and neck. Her hand wraps around the back of Brittany’s neck but she doesn’t pull Brittany to her. She just holds her steady and takes deep breaths, weighed down and at the mercy of the torrent of feelings rushing through her.   
 

“San,” Brittany breathes out. “This isn’t a dark hall. People can see us.” 

 

 She knows. She’s so hyperaware of the students just loitering in the hallway, watching them, that she’s surprised she can even focus between that and having Brittany so close. She knows and she hates that Brittany knows it, holds her back from really doing anything. 

 

 “If I,” she starts, dry-swallowing so hard it feels like her throat will close forever. “If I kiss you, will you kiss me back?” 

 

Santana can’t kiss Brittany now if the blonde is going to push her away. It’s what she deserves but she won’t be able to actually go for it if she already knows Brittany is just going to deny her. Brittany doesn’t say anything though, her eyes wide and unblinking as she stares back at Santana, still waiting. She’s always waiting for Santana to catch up, to realize what’s going on. 

 

 They call Santana the smart one, but they don’t really know anything about the way  _BrittanyandSantana_  work. 

 

She ducks her head, her bottom lip brushing against the seam of Brittany’s mouth, and she told herself she wouldn’t go further than that but she’s pressing her mouth against Brittany’s, licking her way past her lips. She lets out a breathy sigh of relief when Brittany only pauses for a second and kisses her back. 

  
_It’s fine_ , Santana tells herself. In the morning, she’ll explain to Sam what’s going on and she’ll point him in the direction of the self-help section of the library, to get a few pointers on how to be cool. She’ll explain to Brittany all the reasons why she should dump Artie. She’ll explain to herself that it’s okay to feel this way, because she’s not alone. She’ll explain it all later when Brittany’s fingertips aren’t sliding against her scalp and she’s not palming Brittany’s cheek, trying to make sure her hand didn’t forget how to touch Brittany gently. 

 

“Okay,” Brittany whispers so lightly that Santana isn’t sure she actually hears it. “Okay,” Brittany repeats. “I’ll kiss you back.” 

  
Santana breathes out a laugh. “Britt, you already kissed me back.” 

 

 Brittany’s mouth turns up and she presses her smile against Santana’s smile. “I mean that I’ll kiss you back. Forever.” 

 

 The word  _forever_  echoes in Santana’s head and down in her chest where something flutters alive again, for the first time in a long time. “Forever,” she whispers back hesitantly. 

 

“Forever,” Brittany says again, her fingers pushing into the back of Santana’s neck, tilting her head back. She ducks down a little, staring into Santana’s eyes. “Forever as soon as I find Artie.” 

 

 Santana knows what that means and that flutter turns into something else – like something with wings is caught in the dark space of her chest and it’s beating wildly, desperately trying to get out. Before, she would have pushed it down and refused to try and feel it, but now… Now she takes a deep breath and lets the beating spread throughout her until the tips of her fingers are pulsing and her lips are tingling, aching with the need to touch any part of Brittany she can reach. 

 

 “Go find Artie,” she says quietly. “I’ll wait right here.” 

 

 Brittany takes a slow step back, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Right here?” 

 

“I’ll be right here,” Santana promises. “Waiting for you.” 

 

 The blonde smiles widely, turning on her heel sharply and moving down the hallway fluidly, tossing a look back over her shoulder right before she rounds the corner. Santana breathes out heavily, feeling the confession and the moment lifted off her shoulder as she does. 

 

 She’ll be right here waiting when Brittany comes back. 

  
She’ll do everything right, and almost everything that Brittany asks. 

 

She’ll make sure Brittany falls in love with her and stays that way.


End file.
